She still had the cemetery to search.

CHAPTER TWELVE

WHEN CATHERINE AND OWEN arrived at the watchmaker’s, Guy Nolan closed shop and led them upstairs to his flat. Owen quickly retired to the spare room down the hall, claiming a headache; Catherine couldn’t blame him for wanting to be alone. Guy made him up a plate of cheese and toast, a cup of lavender tea and honey to help him sleep. Catherine bade Owen good night and took a seat at the kitchen table.

The mantel clock above the fireplace ticked softly in the stillness. Beside it, a painted miniature sat in an oval frame. It was a picture of a dark-haired boy—no older than ten—standing solemn-faced in a jacket and short trousers. Guy came back into the kitchen, and Catherine smiled, gesturing to it. “Is that you?”

He glanced at the portrait but didn’t answer the question. He went and stood at the window, resting his hands against the sill. “Mr. Smith seems quite overset.”

She sighed. “Yes. We visited the coffin maker’s on Burnside Lane. The man there—he knew him from before. He said he just vanished one day.”

Guy turned to look at her. He was silhouetted against the window, his watch chain glinting at his waistcoat pocket. “You do think he was murdered, then?”

Catherine swallowed. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No.” Guy took a moment to close his eyes. “No. Sadly, I find it all too easy to believe. And buried in an unmarked grave like he was.” He shook his head. “I’ll wager he had no one in the world to care for him.”

Catherine pushed up from the table. She took hold of her coat and bonnet and slipped on her gloves. Her heart remained steady, her breaths even, though her calm was in shattered pieces. “I have to be on my way,” she said. “I need to search the cemetery.”

Glancing out at the street, Guy said, “Would you like me to come with you?”

She paused. A heavy silence hung between them, weighted by the occurrences of last night, until Catherine set a gloved hand on the table and said, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Nolan. I’d much appreciate your help.”

He went down the hall to let Owen know, and Catherine went downstairs, waiting in the dim of the shop. The lamppost just outside had been lit; its brightness shone through the front window, light gleaming over the polished counter, to the clocks on the wall, reflecting off their glass casings.

The old staircase creaked and popped under Guy’s footsteps. He fetched a lantern from the back room and took his coat and hat from their place on the rack.

“How was your visit with Mr. Mallory?” Catherine asked as they headed out. “You didn’t… you didn’t tell him about Mr. Smith, did you?”

“No, no.” Guy adjusted his grip on the unlit lantern, locking the door behind them. He offered her his arm as they started down the street. “I did ask him if anyone at the university might know something more of this timepiece, aside from the rumors, but—” He stopped, very abruptly, pressing his lips thin.